Follow-ups, or a taste for hospital drama.

I'd only met my surgeon - let's call him Dr. M. - once: he was in his operating scrubs with a white mask covering his mouth and his hands suspended in sterile awkwardness. We were only moments prior to a lengthy surgery on my neck and he acknowledged me with a rapid nod before beginning a roll-call of the people and equipment present in the operating theater. His eyes were very blue.

Following the operation, there was an endless stream of hospital staff. This is perhaps more typical of American hospitals than health care in the UK. There are, for example, regular visits by the surgeon's slightly more junior colleagues and the hospital doctors and the ward doctor; there are smartly dressed physician's assistants whose perceptions of their own seniority seem, sometimes, to be held primarily by themselves; there is a highly striated rank-and-file of nursing staff from ward managers and expert practitioners through to nursing assistants and trainees; there is a case manager who wears a smart suit and high heels and sounds like an accountant; and even the cleaning and auxiliary staff have a careful hierarchy within which each person has their own clearly defined place within the food chain organization. Even as an Englishwoman knowing few people in Vermont, I had little chance to become lonely, although my insurance company is now paying dearly for the company I kept: currently the expenses associated with my operation exceed $100,000.

But Dr. M and I were not scheduled to meet again until this Tuesday, and I was looking forward to our meeting. I wanted to say thank-you, and I had a long list of questions written out on the back of a hospital menu.

But first I needed to introduce myself to the plump middle-aged woman behind the reception desk. She directed me towards a younger woman with a smaller desk, who confirmed, with careful and laborious care, that my address, date of birth, and credit card numbers had not changed since the accident. I followed the signs to radiology, where another receptionist greeted me. I suspect she is paid slightly less than her front-of-house colleagues: she needed to talk about bra straps and menstrual cycles rather than credit card numbers and insurance coverage.

The radiologist was male. After all the 'Good-afternoon-welcome-to-the-spinal-institute-how-are-you-and-have-a-nice-day' pleasantries of the previous staff, his silence came as a surprise. Behind the beard and lead apron, here was a man who saw himself as a tortured artist. We spent an uncomfortable half-hour together, trying to stretch and bend my neck into positions which were the most aesthetically pleasing for his work, and I think I was a disappointment to him: when I said good-bye, he grunted and did not return my smile.

In another part of the hospital, a male nurse showed me into the surgeon's office. He was a nice man of many words. A few years ago he had an operation on his neck. He's still in pain every day. Lots of pain. When he rides his motor-bike, it hurts. He showed me how much he could move his head to the left and right, up and down. He told us he shouldn't have been our surgeon's nurse that day, but the other nurse and her stand-in were both absent. He didn't like working so hard because it made his neck hurt. He had to hurry away to another patient before I finished offering him my condolences.

Being left alone in a doctor's office is typical of most doctor visits in the US. From what I remember of the UK, the doctor is in the room when the patient knocks on the door. In the US, the patient sits in the room - once, when we were waiting to see the pediatrician, for more than an hour - and it is the doctor who knocks on the door.

Except when it isn't.

After twenty minutes, the physician's assistant knocked. She was extremely beautiful and well-dressed, making House M.D. seem like reality television. We talked about who I was, which was useful because she had thought I was someone else, and I read out my list from the back of the old menu card. When she asked if she might examine me, I felt suddenly self-conscious about my plaid shirt and shabby jeans. I've never been someone who dresses up for doctor's visits, but I felt poorly presented for the role of 'patient with a broken neck'. Fortunately, the examination was swift: she looked at my scar, tapped my arms and commented upon my lack of reflexes, and left the room.

Dr. M's eyes were as blue as I had remembered. He was happy with the radiologist's artwork and the evidence of his own handiwork. He was gracious when I thanked him and his eyes, which were very blue, only strayed towards the physician's assistant's legs occasionally while I was talking. Overall, it was all very positive news. My neck is healing as well as I am allowed to expect, the nerve damage seems to be lessening over time, and my mobility is excellent considering all things.

My next visit is in 6 weeks' time. In the meantime, I am going to watch a few hospital tv shows so that I better know what to wear and how to deal with frustrated artists.